


The Devil Had a Daughter

by electricskeptic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Hell, Non-Graphic Violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:59:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricskeptic/pseuds/electricskeptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's devoted her whole existence to serving a cause; now that's all gone, and she should be terrified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil Had a Daughter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Meg Exchange. Contains general spoilers for the first half of S8, but goes AU sometime before 8x17 as I started writing before that episode aired.

It’s nearly a hundred degrees in L.A., and she feels the burn more acutely than ever before, attuned to every blister that splits the surface of the meatsuit’s – _her_ – skin, the slow-cooking of her flesh. It reminds her of Hell; but then most things do, these days.

She supposes it’s one of the side-effects of settling into this empty shell that’s become her body, getting acquainted with the imprisonment that’s probably less than she deserves for several lifetimes’ worth of sin. The gates slammed shut three months ago, and everything that once made her powerful has been slowly draining away ever since.

She won’t ever be human again, that much is certain. Her soul is exactly the same twisted, blackened shape it’s always been, ever since she was first tossed into the fires of damnation. This is not redemption or salvation; it just _is,_ a cruel twist of fate, a demon trapped inside a girl, forced to live out the minutiae of earthbound life until the body breaks down, ceases to function.

She doesn’t know what happens after that.

Taking pleasure where she can get it is something she knows how to do well after all those years on the run from Crowley. She has her freedom now, if nothing else, so she learns to console herself with the little things: a night in a four-star hotel on someone else’s dime; the crinkle of the foil wrapping on a fresh pack of Marlboros; the half-fallen angel still passed out in her bed.

She leans forward, rests her elbows against the balcony railing, ignores the searing heat of the metal against her bare forearms. Takes a cigarette from the packet she’s been working on for the last week and rolls it idly between her fingers for a moment or two. She’s fairly sure this shit can actually kill her now, but she’s not particularly inclined to care.

She purses her lips around the filter and fumbles with a lighter, trying to get a flame. The damn thing’s almost empty and she curses her frustration, watching it sputter weakly before it gives up altogether. Somewhere behind her, in the cool shade of the bedroom, she hears Castiel stir, mumbling something irritable and sleep-slurred and vaguely accusatory.

She loses patience with a flash of impotent rage that surges up out of nowhere, hurling the lighter away with all the strength that this fragile body has to offer. It sails in a neat arc right over the edge of the balcony, tumbling down several storeys to the street below. She doesn’t bother sticking around to see where it lands, tucking the cigarette into the back pocket of her jeans and retreating back inside.

Not so very long ago she would have been able to ignite the paper with barely a thought; now she’s reduced to this. It’s pathetic. _She’s_ pathetic.

Life goes on.

+

When Lucifer rises, Meg is among the last group of demons who go to pay their respects.

She’s been distracted, what with trying to find the Michael sword and eliminate the opposition’s only weapon before either the Winchesters or the God squad could lay their hands on the damn thing. And after all that, it turns out that Dean Winchester _is_ the Michael sword, and how’s that for irony? As luck would have it, the boy’s self-loathing and bull-headed stubbornness reaches even more pathetic depths than Meg had realized, and his obstinate refusal to let God’s first archangel wear him to the prom gives Team Hell the definite advantage.

Maybe she should send him a fruit basket.

Of course, there’s also the fact that Dean’s recalcitrance is matched by his oaf of a brother’s, but: details. At least Lucifer _has_ a back-up vessel.

He walks among them now; their God incarnate, an inverse mirror to the Christian tale of Jesus taking fleshly form to walk among his subjects. A part of Meg recoils in disgust, even as she longs to press herself closer, to fall to her knees in supplication. For all that he’s corrupted, Lucifer is still an angel, and his grace burns hot in the presence of his tainted children. The Nick guy is fraying already, a thin veil that couldn’t possibly hope to contain all that resides within its bones. The true form of the Morningstar shines forth, seeping through the cracks in human skin until it hurts to look at him.

The other demons avert their eyes, lowering their heads in servitude and deference, but Meg keeps her chin raised even as her retinas burn and sting. Pride is a sin, but it’s one the devil values highly.

He stops in front of her, measures her up with slow surety, taking in all that she is. This meatsuit fits her better than the Masters girl she’d used to gain Sam’s trust, with its wild tangle of dark hair and full lips that curve sinfully when she pulls them up into a smirk. Some shade of the human still exists, but she stopped screaming a long time ago.

Lucifer smiles, and the glow burns hotter.

Meg doesn’t flinch.

“You,” he says, and somewhere beneath the soft-spoken tones of the human she can hear the roar of his angelic voice. “You’re one of Azazel’s children.”

“I am,” she confirms, though it wasn’t a question.

“Me and your daddy, we go back,” Lucifer says, and she’s captivated, a rat trapped in a snake’s thrall. She’s more vulnerable than she would ever normally dream of allowing herself to be, and she doesn’t even care. “None of this would be possible without his fine work.”

“Not just his,” Meg bites before she can help herself. She’s overstepping her bounds, and she half-expects Lucifer to incinerate her on the spot for her insolence, but she shed her own blood for Azazel and his fucking plan; she served another term in the Pit for it.

Lucifer laughs; the sound of it sets her teeth on edge. “I stand corrected.” He looks her over again, and this time there’s something like approval, like recognition. “You’re the one they call Meg. The Winchesters.”

He sounds disdainfully amused by the human name she stole – as though it’s something ridiculous, beneath her. He doesn’t ask for her real name; even if he had, she’d have no answer to give him. That was lost centuries ago, burned out of her by the flames, along with everything else that came _before._

Lucifer takes her face in his hands. His palms are dry, and colder than she’d expected.

“Stand with me, child,” he murmurs. “We’ll take this world in the name of all those whom God damned in his arrogance.”

His grace flows forward, igniting in her veins like naphtha, burning, cleansing, _consuming;_ swallowing her whole. Meg screams – in agony or in rapture, she can’t tell.

It feels like coming home.

+

“An angel and a demon,” Atropos says, looking between the two of them with disbelief etched all over her face. “Is it the end of times again and nobody bothered to warn me?”

Fate definitely isn’t what Meg expected her to be, what with her librarian glasses, snooty tone and prim-and-proper attire, but she knows well enough that looks can be deceiving. The venue isn’t exactly what she expected either: some classy cocktail joint smack in the middle of Manhattan, flogging lurid drinks that probably taste like pisswater and cost ten bucks apiece. Meg’s leather jacket and ripped jeans are hilariously out of place – to say nothing of Castiel in his flasher’s trenchcoat and crooked tie – but then nobody is paying attention to either of them, the bar’s human occupants all frozen in time as Atropos chews on an olive and glares down her nose at them. Despite her unassuming appearance, the air around her crackles with a dangerous kind of power the likes of which far outstrips anything Meg has ever felt from Castiel, or even Lucifer.

Naturally, this was all Castiel’s idea, and not for the first time Meg is starting to regret that she ever agreed to go along with it.

“Seriously,” Atropos goes on, “you’ve got some nerve to request an audience with me, Castiel, after everything you did.”

“I saved your life,” Castiel says, and Meg’s _definitely_ getting the feeling that there’s more to their ‘history’ than what he told her. “I called off Balthazar when he could’ve killed you –“

“Oh, _please._ Like you’re not the one who put the hit out on me in the first place? And that’s not even mentioning the fact that you _changed history,_ or that whole god debacle. Were you aware that you’re single-handedly responsible for more dead angels than anyone else in history, including Lucifer?” She slams an ancient-looking ledger down on the bar, bound in leather and edged with gold trim. “I would know; I wrote down all their names. Want me to refresh your memory?”

“Yeah, well, he’s real penitent about all that,” Meg drawls, ignoring the glare from Castiel she can feel burning into the side of her head. _Let him do the talking, her ass._ “Honestly, if you knew how much angst I have to put up with… Between you and me, it’s kind of pathetic.”

Atropos turns her gaze on Meg, and her expression sours even further, something which Meg honestly hadn’t thought possible until it happened.

“And _you._ Spawn of a fallen angel, favored of the Morningstar. Don’t think I don’t know of the chaos you wrought during the Apocalypse.”

“Hey, I was Team Fate all the way, sister. I’m not the one who fucked up the plan; I was just playing my part.”

Atropos sighs heavily, pinches the bridge of her nose like this is all too much irritation for her to deal with right now. “What do you _want._ ”

“We need your help,” Castiel states bluntly, shooting Meg a look that she’s pretty sure translates as _please stop talking._

Atropos snorts derisively. “And why would I want to help either of you?”

Meg can feel the flesh of her palms splitting under her fingernails from resisting the urge to launch herself across the bar and wring Fate by her skinny neck. Atropos smiles thinly at her from over the rim of her cocktail glass.

“I wouldn’t bother. I could erase your entire miserable existence before you manage to move an inch.”

“Sam and Dean are going to close the gates of Heaven and Hell for good,” Castiel interjects hurriedly, even as Meg feels her demonic essence rise to the surface. From the look of pure disgust Atropos sends her, she’s sure her eyes are solid black.

“And let me guess: you both want protection so you don’t end up being sealed away for eternity with every other angel and demon in existence wanting to rip you limb from limb. Tell me, why shouldn’t I just let you rot like you deserve?”

“Because you _want_ the gates to close,” Meg hisses. She’s pretty much done with playing nice. “No more Heaven and Hell interfering with your business. Thing is, the flannel twins won’t go through with it unless they know their feathered friend here isn’t going to end up stuck on the wrong side, and if he gets protection, so do I.”

She’s bluffing on all counts, of course, but Atropos doesn’t need to know that.

“Unbelievable,” Atropos mutters, after a moment of silence. “You actually care for each other.”

“I don’t know about that,” Meg scoffs. “’Care’ is such a strong term. We tolerate each other for mutual benefit.”

Atropos shakes her head. “Look, even if I _did_ want to help you, do you even know what it is you’re asking? Without a connection to Heaven or Hell, your powers will start to fade, and there’s no getting them back once that process has started. You’ll be made mortal, trapped inside your human bodies as they age and die around you. Is that really what you want?”

“Talk it up some more, why don’t you,” Meg sneers. It sounds like hell, if she’s honest; she’s been the thing that creeps in the shadows for so long that she can’t even remember what it’s like, to be fragile and breakable and _mortal,_ the prey and not the predator, the victim and not the killer. Even these last few years as a fugitive, out on her own with a target painted on her back, haven’t made her any less dangerous. If anything they’ve honed her further, sharpened her edges without the security that came with being among Lucifer’s inner circle, made her faster, smarter, more adaptable. Crowley sends his lackeys after her because he’s too much of a coward to face her himself, and she cuts them down one by one, sees the fear in their eyes as she tears out their throats. The thought of losing all that, the one thing she has left in the world, the one thing she’s always been able to rely on, feels like the bottom of the earth dropping out from under her.

But then she thinks of the alternative: _literal_ Hell, sealed back in the Pit for eternity with no hope of escape, and under Crowley’s regime no less. She can imagine all too well the things he’d do to make an example of Lucifer’s second in command, and it’s not a scenario she’s particularly eager to play out in reality.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“I agree,” Castiel says quietly, and Meg wonders if he’s thinking of all those dead angels up in Heaven, or maybe just the few live ones looking to exact some bloody retribution. Funny, how they’ve ended up in exactly the same boat: outcasts from their own species, Heaven and Hell’s most wanted.

Atropos rolls her eyes. “Your funerals.” She drains the rest of her cocktail, glances warily between them. “I suppose we’d better get started, then.”

+

She almost feels sorry for Dean, the first time she sees him on Alastair’s rack. She guesses that means it really _isn’t_ something she’d wish on her worst enemy. For the moment, he’s still in one piece; Alastair wanted her to have a fresh canvas to work on. His wrists and ankles are shackled, and there are tearstains on his face, but the set of his jaw is defiant and his eyes gleam with a hatred she remembers all too well. She can see why Alastair likes him. It makes her gut churn.

Of course, there’s also the fact that he’s the reason she’s back down here in the first place. And Hell is kind of an every-soul-for-themselves environment. You’re going to be on one end of the blade, so if you don’t want to get fileted you better hope you’re the one doing the fileting.

“Look sharp, Dean, we’ve got a visitor today,” Alastair croons. Even after all these centuries, the sound of his voice is enough to put a shiver down Meg’s spine. “I believe the two of you have quite a bit of, hmm, catching up to do.”

“Hey, Deano,” Meg grins, setting the point of her knife against the hollow of his throat. The weapon is her favorite; one she forged in hellfire herself. “Long time no see, huh?”

She feels him swallow convulsively against her blade even as his eyes narrow in suspicion and he forces a hollow chuckle. “Meg, is that you? Gotta say, you’re a lot less easy on the eyes down here. Then again, I guess you don’t have that meatsuit to hide behind.”

Meg smiles sweetly. “Oh, Dean. We all have our true selves revealed down here. You’ll be the same, soon enough.”

She’s all too familiar with the prophecy of the righteous man and the first seal; Azazel had been obsessed with it. He’d put all of his money on John being the one, even though Meg could have told him he was backing the wrong horse. Winchester Junior is much more malleable, so long as you know where to exert the right pressure. He screams so pretty when she drives her blade home.

It doesn’t take Alastair long to crack him, though time in Hell is nebulous at best. Before it happens, she half-expects the underworld to burst open, something momentous to mark the breaking of the first seal. She at least expects to _feel_ it. All she gets instead is Alastair’s slow, victorious smile, Dean sobbing _yes_ over and over again as he chokes on his own trachea.

She doesn’t lose faith, though. This is only the beginning. Soon their god will return to them, and Hell will rise up to claim the earth.

She hides in a shadowy corner of the Pit when the angels come; she’d rather be a coward than dead, and the foolish few who attempt to fight end up being completely obliterated. She wants to close her eyes against the light – god, the _light_ – but she also wants to see, _needs_ to see what’s happening. She can’t even begin to make sense of the angels, their forms incomprehensible to the extent that looking at them for too long makes her feel ill, but she watches anyway.

Watches as a group of them tackle Alastair, surrounding him on all sides so he’s forced to engage. Watches as a solitary figure approaches Dean – more demon than human himself by now – and extends what could be a hand but looks more like a glowing tendril of light, wrapping it around his shoulder. Watches as the thing spreads what can only be wings, large and bright enough to fill the entire cavern, watches as Dean kicks and screams and curses, fighting all the way until the angel drags him bodily out of sight.

In the aftermath, Hell is almost silent for the first time she can remember, the screams of damned souls replaced by the sobbing of those demons still left with their lives, trying to process what just happened. The atmosphere is dominated by the overwhelming feeling that something’s _changed;_ Heaven just infiltrated their territory for the first time in living memory, and declared war in doing so.

A few months later – or decades, in Hell-time – the breaking of a particular seal ensures her freedom, and Meg escapes Hell for the final time. She makes the effort to free Lucifer her new purpose, and devotes everything she has to it.

It’s all she knows how to do.

+

“Dean, _again?_ What, are you married now?”

Castiel glares at her as he hangs up his phone, scribbles something illegible on the corner of a napkin. “There are signs of werewolf activity maybe twenty minutes away from here. Dean said we should investigate.”

“Did he now,” Meg sighs, looking longingly at the giant waffle stack on the plate in front of her. This whole hunting business had been Castiel’s idea, and much as she loathes to admit it, it’s actually been kinda fun on the whole. Turns out being mostly powerless has revealed the thrillseekers in both of them, and Meg needs an outlet for her violent urges that isn’t likely to put the FBI on their tail. Killing is an addiction; once you’ve got the taste for it, it’s difficult to stop, and she still longs for chaos and bloodshed just as much as she did when she was all demon.

She thinks Castiel is the same, although he’d never admit it.

Unfortunately, they’re actually bound by human law these days, so hunting seems like a much more reasonable past-time than massacring innocents. Still risky, but the chances of making waves are slim if you know how to cover your tracks, and there’s a network of people ready to bail you out if you do happen to find yourself on the wrong side of the law.

Hell might not be much of a threat anymore, but there are still plenty of other monsters to take care of. Meg sometimes feels mildly repulsed at the notion that she’s actually doing something _good_ , but for the most part she considers that an unpleasant side-effect to the thrill of the hunt.

Getting used to fighting with only human strength at their disposal is a slow and painful process for the both of them, though centuries – or millennia, in Castiel’s case – of military training are not so easily overridden. Meg has the advantage of already having years of experience with human weaponry under her belt; Castiel is less familiar with the ins and outs of firearm handling, but he’s a fast learner and he picks it up soon enough. He still tends to favor blades, though, whereas Meg has no difficulty switching between the two at will. There’s something personal, _intimate_ almost, about using a knife or a sword, feeling it slip through skin and muscle and viscera, the warm flow of blood over her hand – but she can’t deny that there’s a certain sense of power that comes with holding a gun that’s just as pleasurable in its own right.

They’re both terrible at interviewing witnesses; Meg is marginally better than Castiel at feigning empathy, thanks to those months she spent moonlighting as a psychiatric nurse, but she loses her temper quickly and ends up resorting to thinly-veiled threats when things don’t go the way she wants them to. Fortunately, between the two of them they’re usually able to _intimidate_ most people into talking, and the bad-cop-worse-cop routine isn’t too far beyond the realm of plausibility when they’re supposed to be imitating FBI agents. They make it work.

They find the werewolf easily enough: some loser who’s all too aware of his ‘gift’ and has been using it to exact some disproportionate retribution on the business partners who screwed him over. The asshole manages to claw up Castiel’s shoulder, to which Meg responds by shooting him full of silver. The whole thing is short-lived and mildly pathetic.

Afterwards, Castiel sits on the edge of a threadbare motel mattress and glares sullenly into middle distance as Meg stitches him up with rough, impatient pulls of the needle through flesh. He gets like this every time he’s reminded that he’s no longer invulnerable, silent and unresponsive and absorbed by his own self-pity. It’s fucking annoying.

“”Poor baby,” Meg coos mockingly, pulling the thread tighter than she strictly needs to. “Does it hurt? Look on the bright side; at least it didn’t bite you. How pathetic would that be, an angel turning into a werewolf?”

“Is this funny to you?” Castiel snarls, and there it is: all that directionless rage that Meg knows is constantly bubbling away under there, finally starting to seep through the cracks in his façade. She can’t deny that getting a rise out of him brings her a perverse thrill; the knowledge that despite his pretence at stoicism he’s just as angry at their situation as she is, that she’s not the only one thinking maybe this isn’t freedom after all. Maybe they only succeeded in damning themselves.

“I’m not an angel anymore. I don’t know _what_ I am. Maybe it would have been better to let them lock us away.”

_Blah blah blah._ Meg rolls her eyes; she’s heard this particular pity party so many times she could probably recite it from memory. Castiel might have lost his grace, but he definitely hasn’t lost his penchant for melodrama.

“I think,” she says slowly, tying off the last stitch, “you need a distraction.”

She cuts the thread and crawls into his lap, kissing him with about as much patience and finesse as she’d put into fixing his shoulder, still buzzing with endorphins and post-hunt adrenaline in need of an outlet. Castiel is an equal and opposing force pushing back against her, his kisses harsh and desperate and none-too-polite, all that frustration transmuted into something she can actually get on board with. He gets a handful of her hair, pulls her head back to suck a bruise into the flesh of her throat, and it’s good, _god,_ so good. They’ve done this dozens, maybe hundreds of times, and it never _stops_ being good. Better than good, maybe even the best sex she’s ever had, and she doesn’t need a shrink to tell her just how fucked up that is.

They’re both on edge, full of keyed-up energy; it doesn’t take long before Castiel is pushing inside her, and then Meg’s riding him like her life depends on it. She loses herself in the burn of her thighs, the bite of his fingers into her hips hard enough to bruise, the clench of her stomach every time he gets the angle _just right_ – all of it better than anything else she’s felt since the gates slammed shut.

Castiel says her name like a prayer, and Meg smirks despite herself, because this is the angel who defied Heaven, who made himself into a god, and this is what she reduces him to, each and every time. How the mighty have fallen, indeed.

He’s all but human now, and would be easy, _too_ easy for her to wrap her hands around his throat, choke the life out of him once and for all. He probably wouldn’t even try to stop her, is the truly pathetic thing; she thinks he’d probably let her do anything she wants when she’s got him like this, flat on his back, begging her to go _harder, faster,_ like she’s the one fucking _him._

It’s not a thought she entertains particularly seriously, though. There are people who would actually seek to avenge Castiel should anything happen to him, which is one of the few areas in which they differ, these days. Besides, she can’t deny that she’s grown fond of the sanctimonious little bastard, and this half-life she’s been living wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without her partner in crime. Sometimes she thinks that in some fucked-up way she maybe even loves him, insofar as a creature like her is capable of love, but she’s not touching that thought with a ten-foot pole. Especially not when she’s en route to a seriously mind-blowing orgasm.

She stops thinking eventually, gives herself over to the sensory overload, the feel of Castiel inside her, around her, immovable object to her unstoppable force. Or maybe she’s got it wrong, maybe they’re both the unstoppable force and that’s why this works, somehow, despite all the odds stacked against them, despite everything that they _are_ , their very natures dictating that they should stay as far away from each other as possible.

It occurs to Meg in the split-second before her climax hits that maybe she’s gotten herself in deeper than she intended, but she suspects it’s too late to back out now. Devoting herself wholeheartedly to her cause – whatever it may be – is the only thing she’s ever known how to do, and she’s not entirely certain if it’s something she can stop.

+

It’s something of an understatement to say that the hovel she’s currently calling home would not exactly be her first choice of living arrangements; in fact, it’s little more than a glorified crack den, but if the last two years have taught her anything, it’s that survival requires sacrifice. By their nature, demons are usually drawn to luxury and comfort – which is exactly what Crowley would expect of her, so she’s gone dramatically in the opposite direction in the hopes of evading him.

Life on the run is many things, but glamorous is not one of them, and it’s a far cry from the prestige and influence she enjoyed while Azazel and Lucifer were in power. Revenge is a better motivator than most, though, and the thought of finally gutting Crowley like he deserves is what keeps her going most days. She’s just biding her time; one day in the not-so-distant future, his head will be hers.

Suffice to say, she hasn’t told anyone of her whereabouts, but she’s not exactly surprised when she gets a visitor. She’s been watching the news, after all; she would have almost been disappointed if their new self-appointed overlord _hadn’t_ come to pay her a visit at some stage.

“Hello, Meg.”

While she would never have made the mistake of thinking of the old Castiel as harmless, he mostly just seemed to come across as kind of impatient with a quick fuse and an unhealthy dose of pride. By comparison, there’s definitely something _off_ about this new-and-improved model, and she can’t tell whether it’s the soft, measured calmness of his speech or the curious, robotic blankness of his expression, like there’s nothing going on beneath the surface. Either way, it’s creepy.

And now he’s calling himself God, which is just another indication of exactly how far off the reservation he is. Privately, Meg thinks he seems more like Lucifer 2.0; there’s the same misplaced sense of entitlement, the delusions of grandeur and self-righteous anger at daddy dearest. He’s more effective than Lucifer was, though, so she has to give him some credit. The death toll is nearing the thousands already, and it’s only been a matter of weeks.

“So you actually did it, huh? Cracked open Purgatory and screwed Crowley over in the process. Gotta admit, Clarence, I’m impressed. I didn’t think you had the balls.”

Castiel inclines his head, and the gesture seems impossibly _wrong_ for some reason she can’t put her finger on _._ “You don’t need to fear Crowley anymore. He won’t harm you; I’ve made sure of that.”

Meg blinks, surprised in spite of herself. As far as she was aware, Castiel didn’t give a damn about her before, at least not as anything more than an occasional fuckbuddy and someone to whine about his problems to. He _definitely_ shouldn’t care about her now that he’s busy distributing divine justice all over the globe, and yet. There it is.

“And just why exactly would you do that?” She sneers. The bravado isn’t going to fool anyone, and she hates herself for the quaver in her voice. She feels cornered; trapped. If she’s going to die, she’d rather not do it in this anonymous hell hole, snuffed out by a false deity with an overinflated sense of importance.

Castiel looks almost unsure for a moment, like he doesn’t know the answer himself. “I reward those who are loyal to me. I’m building a new world, and I want you to live in it. All you have to do is accept me as your Lord, and submit yourself wholly to my will.”

Meg just barely refrains from rolling her eyes. Castiel has clearly lost whatever was left of his mind, but he’s has power, and for some reason he’s taken a personal interest in her. She’s been around long enough to know that aligning herself with the most powerful piece on the board is the best way to buy her protection; she just needs to play her cards right.

“Fine, whatever, I submit.” She glances dubiously at the grime-encrusted floor. “Please tell me I don’t have to kneel.”

Castiel smiles; not the smug smirk she’s used to but something that manages to be both condescending and serene. It freaks her the hell out. “That won’t be necessary.”

“…Well, okay, then. So what happens now, your Lordship?” It’s possible she’s laying on the sarcasm a bit thick, but this whole situation is just so blatantly _ridiculous._ “More importantly, can I get out of this dive now?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, glancing at the back of his hand; he seems distracted by something, _unnerved_ even, but she’s at the wrong angle to get a good look at it. Whatever it is, it’s the most familiar he’s seemed since this conversation started.

“I’ll be in touch,” he mutters absently, before vanishing and leaving her with more questions than answers.

He disappears off the face of the earth maybe a week after that. Various rumors circulate about the circumstances, all of which seem to contradict one another. Some say the Winchesters killed him; some say he was struck down by Death himself; some say he returned the souls to Purgatory and his body couldn’t take the stress. The general consensus, however, is the same: Castiel is gone, and the Leviathans have taken his place.

Meg doesn’t mourn him, but she does feel a pang of _something_ ; regret, perhaps, at losing one of the few people not actively trying to kill her.

Whatever it is, she doesn’t dwell on it for too long. She has more important things to deal with.

+

It takes nearly two years to escape from Crowley’s prison after his lackeys grab her from SucroCorp. Most of that time she spends waiting for the opportune moment, plotting her escape, and when it comes she almost misses it.

Nevertheless, she manages to get away eventually; it’s been a long time since the King last paid her a personal visit. She’s hardly at the top of his priorities anymore, and he’s been distracted by prophets and tablets and god only knows what else. It’s easy to fool the guards he leaves in charge of her into thinking that she’s weaker than she really is; easy to slip from her chains with all the blood that’s slicking the way and use them to garrotte her minders before they can sound the alarm. As it is, she knows she has some time before Crowley realises she’s missing, but she’s not taking any chances.

She waits until she’s a good distance away before taking shelter in an abandoned barn and performing the summoning ritual, drawing out the sigils in chalk with shaking hands. She has no way of knowing if Castiel is even still alive, or how he’ll react to her summons if he is, but she needs help from s _omeone,_ and he’s the closest thing to an ally she has left.

She’s still not taking any chances, though. She takes out the angel sword hidden inside her jacket – the one she took back from her captors before fleeing – holds it across her lap and waits.

She doesn’t have to wait long. Castiel’s arrival is heralded by a clap of thunder and the brief flicker of the dull overhead lightbulb – _still a showy bastard –_ and then there he is, trenchcoat and all. The white hospital scrubs are, thankfully, gone, replaced by his old business suit and tie. His sword is clenched tightly in his hand, and his face is creased in a scowl of extreme irritation, like he’s just been interrupted in the middle of something vitally important and he doesn’t have _time_ for this bullshit.

Meg is appalled to realize that she’s actually missed him.

“Hey Clarence,” she manages, wincing at the scrape of her abused vocal cords. “Miss me?”

“Meg?” Some of the tension bleeds out of his posture, like he’s no longer expecting an imminent attack. He doesn’t lower his sword, though, but that’s okay; neither does Meg. She’s only managed to survive this long by being smarter than everybody else, and no matter how else she might feel about Castiel, she definitely doesn’t _trust_ him.

“The one and only. Why, who’d you expect?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits. “Not you. I thought you were dead.”

“Well, you didn’t exactly look for me very hard, did you?” Meg snipes, utterly failing to keep the bitterness out of her tone. “Crowley had me, for your information. And since that’s more or less your fault, the least you can do is help me out now.”

Castiel narrows his eyes and edges closer.  She can almost see the gears grinding in his head, and she can predict what he’s going to say next before he even opens his mouth. “You’ve been missing for nearly two years, and you’ve only just escaped now? How do I know Crowley didn’t _let_ you go? That you’re not working with him?”

“Because I’d sooner die than cooperate with that slimy fuck,” Meg spits. She’s not surprised at the accusation, and from a strategic standpoint she can even see where he’s coming from, but it still stings. “You _owe_ me, Castiel. I saved your life. I wasted months of _my_ life babysitting you in that fucking hospital when your precious humans left you there to rot. But you know the very worst thing? I stayed one step ahead of Crowley for _years,_ because I had no-one to look out for but myself; the only reason he caught up to me was because _you_ dragged me back onto his radar!”

She’s breathing heavily by the time she’s done, trying to keep her temper in check. She feels too exposed, somehow, like she’s just revealed more than she should have done, but she can’t seem to help herself these days. And Castiel is still just standing there, looking at her with that stupid impassive expression on his face, and she wants to claw it right off his skull, drive her sword through his chest, make him feel _something._ Anything but this cold indifference, but she supposes it was foolish to expect anything more from an angel.

“You’re bleeding,” he says eventually. Meg looks down at herself, at the dozens of places on her borrowed body that are sluggishly oozing blood, and raises a weary eyebrow.

“A+ observational skills, Sherlock.”

“Why don’t you just find a new host body?”

“You think I wouldn’t have done that already if I could? The first thing Crowley did was brand me with a binding sigil; I’m stuck in this useless sack of meat.”

Castiel sighs, finally lowering his sword until he’s holding it loosely at his side. His whole body seems to deflate, and suddenly he seems incredibly tired.

“I can’t heal you. You’re a demon; my grace would likely burn you out of existence. We’re going to have to do this the hard way. Wait here.”

“Where exactly would I go?” Meg asks pointedly, but he’s already disappeared by the time the question is out. She doesn’t even manage to count to ten before he returns, armed with a supply closet’s worth of first-aid gear. She grits her teeth against the pain as he sets about fixing her wounds, efficient but not exactly gentle, and wonders absently why he even knows how to do this. Angels are a lazy breed, and she can’t imagine that they’d bother to learn conventional first-aid techniques when they can heal with a touch.

“You seem better,” she observes finally; mostly just for something to say, but it’s true. The contrast with the Castiel she last saw before the assault on Leviathan HQ is stark.

“You mean I seem sane,” Castiel corrects bluntly, though not without a measure of wry, self-deprecating humor. “Purgatory will do that to you.”

“Wait, what?” Meg’s so surprised she forgets that she’s supposed to pissed at him. “You were in _Purgatory?_ How’d that happen?”

“It’s a long story.” He pauses in sewing up a nasty gash on her forearm to glance at her face, and he looks contrite for the first time tonight. “I would have looked for you, if I was able. Things have been… difficult since I got back. I haven’t forgotten what you did for me.”

It isn’t quite an apology, but then she never expected one. It’s enough, for now. They lapse into silence again as Castiel works, and it’s almost peaceful, despite the sting of the needle and thread. Meg almost loses track of time until Castiel is finishing the final stitch, and it jars her when he speaks again, shattering the fragile silence.

“You know I can’t keep this from Dean. I _won’t_ keep it from him. I’ve lied to him enough.”

Meg rolls her eyes. “Dean, Dean, Dean. You’re like a broken record, Cas, anyone ever tell you that?” In any other situation she’d needle him some more, but in truth she isn’t really feeling up to it. “Tell him what you want. I just escaped the King of Hell; I’m not afraid of the Winchesters.”

“How _did_ you escape?” Castiel wants to know. For a moment she wonders if he’s accusing her of conspiring with the enemy again, but she doesn’t think so; he sounds honestly curious.

“It’s a long story,” she replies, throwing his response to her earlier questioning back in his face.

“Well, regardless…” he takes a deep breath, like he’s gearing himself up to admit something he really doesn’t want to put voice to. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Meg kind of wants to laugh at that, because she is so very far from okay right now, but she appreciates the sentiment nonetheless. Neither the words nor the softness of his tone really fit the mental picture she’s built of Castiel, but if there’s one thing she’s learnt about him by now it’s that he’s never what she expects him to be.

“Don’t be getting soft on me, flyboy,” she bites in response, because it’s easier to hide behind deflection than admit how messed up it makes her when he looks at her like that. “But, you know. Same to you, I guess.”

+

Meg is the last one to make it to Stull Cemetery, and she wonders if this is her fate, or otherwise some running joke the universe is having at her expense: that she always arrives just that little bit too late for the events that shape her entire existence.

She doesn’t know what she expects to find there; doesn’t even really know why she goes. For closure, maybe, but she’s never been much of a believer in that. Or maybe she’s hoping that it’s all a lie, some big April Fools’ joke; that Lucifer will be there waiting for her and they’ll continue to take the world by storm, just like he’d promised.

She knows in her heart, though, that what she’s been hearing from the rumor mill is true. That it’s all over, that the heroes won, that the devil is locked back in his cage for another eternity. She knew it from the moment it happened, never mind the fact that she was seven states away at the time.

There’s still a few hours left until sunrise, and in the absolute darkness the cemetery is still and silent. To the untrained eye it would seem as though nothing of significance ever happened here, but Meg can _feel_ it, the fissure where Hell opened up to take Lucifer and Michael. Part of her wishes that the ground would give way beneath her feet, that it would swallow her too.

She sinks to her knees on the cold earth, not caring what she looks like. She’s allowed this one moment of weakness before she figures out what to do next; the world owes her that much. Alongside the grief and the loss, there’s also resentment, _anger_ at being let down, at having been foolish enough to believe Lucifer’s false promises, and she drives her fist into the ground, ignoring the way her eyes sting and water.

“You bastard,” she breathes. Even now it feels like blasphemy, like she’s about to be struck down on the spot for her audacity. It doesn’t happen, and somehow that’s a disappointment. “I _believed_ –“

The rest is lost in a choked sob, and the awareness that she’s no longer alone. Pulling herself together, she rises to her feet, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand even as she draws her blade. She doubts any humans would be stupid enough to stray into the cemetery at this hour, which can only mean trouble.

“If it isn’t the devil’s right hand herself.” The voice that filters out of the shadows is all too familiar, smooth British tones that make her stomach turn. “You really put all your eggs in one basket. Must be quite the disappointment to find out that Lucifer really can’t walk the walk.”

“What do you _want,_ Crowley?” she snarls, turning on him as he emerges from the trees behind her. She’s in no mood to play his games, and even the way he flicks imaginary lint off the cuffs of his suit is enough to make her want to run him through.

“Watch your tone,” he says quietly. Still amused, but with a hint of danger in his voice now. “You’re talking to the new King of Hell.”

“ _You?_ ” she scoffs. “What gives you the right? You’re nothing but a glorified salesman.”

“A glorified salesman who happens to know a thing or two about opportunity. “There was a power vacuum; I decided to fill it while you were busy mourning dear old dad.”

“Is that why you helped the Winchesters?” she demands, the pieces starting to fall into place. “You wanted Lucifer out of the picture so you could take Hell for yourself?”

Crowley smiles nastily. “It wasn’t my only motivation. Lucifer was a spoiled brat of an angel who would’ve ended demonkind as soon as he was finished with humanity; that’s just fact. Let’s just say my new business venture was an added bonus.”

“You’re a traitor,” Meg hisses, and now that she’s been presented with a target she can’t stop all the anger and frustration from rising to the surface; it spills out of her like word vomit, an outpouring of vitriol that she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. “If anyone gets to rule the underworld, it should be me! I’m the one who’s made sacrifice after sacrifice, who’s served the cause for centuries while you were out bartering for souls. I’ve been fighting this war since before you were born, you ignorant pig. I’ve spilled more blood than I can even remember while you hid like a coward because you were scared of getting your hands dirty.”

“And look where all that got you,” Crowley points out smugly, and she suddenly wants nothing more than to peel the smarmy smile from his face with her bare hands. “But I’m not here to make an enemy of you. Everything you just said is absolutely true; there are a lot of demons that admire you. I could use you on my team. You can even keep your old position. Come on, what have you got to lose?”

Meg laughs bitterly, steps forward until she’s leaning right into his personal space, pressing the tip of her knife against his chest.

“I _will_ end you,” she promises. “I will tear the skin from your bones and string you up by your intestines if it’s the last thing I do. Do you understand me?”

Crowley _tsks,_ shaking his head in disappointment like she’s just failed some test and he feels terribly let down by it.

“As enlightening as this little chat has been, I’m afraid I’m out of time,” he says, checking his watch theatrically. “Places to go, people to eviscerate; you know how it is. I sincerely hope you change your mind about my offer, otherwise… well, I’ll be seeing you.”

Meg screams in frustration and launches herself forward, but she finds herself stabbing at nothing as Crowley vanishes, the last traces of his mocking laughter drifting in his wake. She remains where she is for several moments, absolutely seething, but there’s something else alongside the rage, a new sense of _purpose_ unfolding within her where only moments before there had been nothing but empty hopelessness and despair.

She knows what she has to do now, and it’s a mission she’ll give herself over to with the same determination she applies to everything else.

Lucifer may be gone, but she’s found a new cause to live for.

+

“This is yours,” Castiel says dubiously, the skepticism in his voice somehow managing to outdo the skepticism scrawled all over his face. ‘This’ would be the sleek, cherry-red convertible Meg’s currently sat behind the wheel of, and to call it hers might be a bit of an exaggeration, but whoever it _actually_ belongs to probably isn’t going to miss it.

Well, actually, they probably will. It was probably expensive. But whatever; anyone who actually spends money on a ride like this is practically _asking_ to have it stolen. Meg’s just teaching the guy a valuable lesson.

“It is now,” she says. “What, you’ve suddenly got a problem with a little grand theft auto? Get in, Clyde.”

Castiel continues to look for a moment like he’s seriously regretting all his life choices before he finally gets in the passenger side, tossing his duffel bag into the backseat.

“Who’s Clyde?”

“Seriously? You’ve never heard of Bonnie and Clyde?” She gets a blank look in response, and for a moment Meg is so stunned that she almost stalls the engine. She recovers it quickly enough, though, and then they’re away. “What has Dean been _teaching_ you all these years? Never mind, don’t answer that; I don’t want to know. Just consider me officially your new educator in popular culture.”

“I can hardly wait,” Castiel snarks, and Meg just barely resists the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

“How did the Wonder Twins take it, anyway? Bet they weren’t too pleased when you told them you’re gonna be roadtripping with me for a while.”

She’d made the suggestion half-jokingly a few days after they’d closed the gates, and she’s still surprised that Castiel actually went along with it. But maybe he needs a change of scenery as much as she does; god knows he must have been going stir-crazy, holed up in the Winchesters’ bunker with nothing to do but mope about the inevitability of losing his grace all over again. Getting out on the road will probably do him some good.

Whatever his reasons, she’s actually kind of glad he agreed to it, though she’d willingly submit herself to another eternity of Hell before she’d admit as much. The years she spent on the run as Hell’s Most Wanted were a lot of things, but mostly they were kind of boring and lonely, and the prospect of freedom seems slightly less daunting with someone to share it with. Not to mention the fact that Castiel is pretty much the only person in the same boat as her right now, so it looks like they’re stuck together for the time being, at least until they start trying to kill each other.

“Surprisingly well,” Castiel says, “although Dean said that if I die he’s going to kill you.”

“Let him try,” Meg snorts. “Demon powers or no demon powers, I can take Dean Winchester.”

“I don’t actually intend to die anytime soon,” Castiel deadpans.

“You say that, but you don’t exactly have the best track record in that department,” Meg points out. The easy back-and-forth between them comes more naturally than she would have expected, and the sudden lightness in her chest makes her almost uncomfortable, she’s so unaccustomed to feeling it.

She feels bizarrely, inexplicably _free,_ for maybe the first time ever, and it unnerves her because she _shouldn’t_. She’s devoted her whole existence to serving a cause; now that’s all gone, and she should be terrified. But maybe that’s what freedom _is_ : wandering rudderless without direction, no idea which way the road will take them.

It won’t all be easy, of course, and there are details she hasn’t fully thought through just yet. They’re going to need money at some stage, and neither of them is exactly in a position to work for a living, given that they’re both wearing the bodies of people who are technically dead and they don’t officially exist. That’s a minor hurdle, however; there are other ways to acquire material resources. She’ll start small, teach Castiel how to hustle some pool, then maybe they’ll work their way up to holding up convenience stores and robbing banks. For a brief moment, she entertains the romantic notion of regaining some shade of her former immortality simply by making herself infamous, but right now she’s content to just drive until they end up somewhere she feels like stopping.

She’s broken out of her reverie by Castiel clearing his throat beside her, and she mentally berates herself for her philosophical wanderings.

“Spit it out, Clarence. If you want a bathroom break already it’s tough shit, because there aren’t any gas stations for another forty miles.”

“No, it’s not that,” Castiel says, and the seriousness of his tone sends up immediate red flags. “You know I didn’t lie to you, don’t you? All those years ago in Carthage?”

She knows, _of course_ she knows. She’s known it ever since that night in Stull Cemetery. Hell, maybe she knew from the moment he first told her, and she just didn’t want to believe. She thinks it’s something she had to find out by herself, though. They say that faith is something you can only discover on your own terms, but what nobody ever talks about is that it’s also something you can only _lose_ on your own terms. It doesn’t matter how many people told her that her god was a charlatan; it wasn’t something she was ever going to believe until she saw the proof with her own eyes.

She doesn’t know why Castiel is choosing to bring this up now, so many years down the line, and she isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of confessing to all that. Weirdly, though, she thinks he gets it anyway. She’s not the only one in this car to have staked everything she had on one thing and lost it all. In a lot of ways, they’re worryingly alike.

The most she can manage is a tight nod of affirmation, and thankfully Castiel doesn’t push the subject any further. Meg flicks the radio on, suddenly in need of distraction, and she can’t help laughing a little at the irony when Johnny Cash starts crooning that _sooner or later God’ll cut you down._

Still, she can’t deny that she feels good, despite the knowledge that in time she’ll be reduced to something almost human. Crowley is locked in Hell once and for all, and she’s got a shiny set of wheels under her and a slightly tarnished not-quite-angel at her side. It’s nowhere near what she’d hoped for, and it’s not even close to making up for all that she’s lost, but she’ll make it work.

More importantly, she’ll _survive_ , somehow or another. It’s what she does


End file.
